


Rescue (Or: How Spock Pulls a Jim on Everyone)

by idreamtofreality



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, also uhura being an absolute queen, as you can tell from the title? spock is a dumbass, but he is trying his best, major character death but it's all ok in the end, see also: spock standing up to starfleet w his friends backing him every step of the way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 16:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamtofreality/pseuds/idreamtofreality
Summary: Jim's gone. One minute he was there, and the next minute he was gone, stolen by a hoard of Klingons who interrupted an otherwise peaceful mission. Spock is ready to get him back, but a certain admiral refuses to let him leave.Unfortunately for the admiral, Spock loves his husband more than he loves his job.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the incredible hanasheralhaminail who is an absolute gem. Hashtag would die for her.

There’s silence—just silence. Spock is finding it hard to breathe.

“Sir,” says the security officer next to Spock, “I’m sure he’s okay.”

Spock knows Jim isn’t okay. Jim’s fear is consuming him, and Spock can feel all of it. “Thank you, Mister King. I appreciate the sentiment.” The words are difficult to get out through all that fear—through all the anger. The former is Jim’s; the latter is Spock’s.

He left him behind. He left his t’hy’la behind. How could he have done such a thing? Jim could _never_ leave Spock behind, even if his own life was in danger.

Spock drops his head into his hands. The security officers around him are uneasy and restless; they didn’t want to leave Jim either, but Spock had forced them to. He’d made them leave their captain behind.

It was a logical decision. He has to keep telling himself that so as not to lose himself in fear and self-hatred and regret and anger. It was a logical decision! If Spock hadn’t pulled them out, they could have all died. The first-in-command, the second-in-command, and eight security officers would be dead if Spock hadn’t pulled them all out.

He pulled them all out but Jim, who had already been injured, who was already being dragged away as a prisoner of war.

“He’s tough,” says another of the security officers. “He’s survived a lot worse before.”

Yes, Spock thinks, but in those situations, he and Jim were not yet bonded. Spock worried about Jim, but he hadn’t been able to feel every single one of those human emotions. He’d been able to concentrate because he didn’t completely grasp the gravity of the situation.

He does now. By god, he does now.

The ship slides into the Enterprise’s port. Spock has already reached his decision: he’s going back. This time, he’s going back without anyone else about whom he might worry.

They all file off the ship and immediately Spock’s enveloped in a warm embrace. He blinks back tears. “Nyota. What are you doing here?”

She’s still hugging him. “I heard what happened on the mission. I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

Spock swallows. “Keep the crew together for now.”

“How’s Jim?”

“He’s scared, but he’s alive.” ‘Scared’ is a gross understatement, and Uhura seems to understand this; somehow her eyes fill with even more sympathy.

“You’re going after him.”

“I have to.”

Uhura hesitates. “You should know, Spock…”

Unease creeps its way into Spock’s chest. “What’s wrong?” He’s already hurrying toward another transport ship—a small one that the Enterprise can spare. If he’s fast enough, he can be on the ship and on the way out before they even close the bay doors. And he is fast enough.

“The admiralty beamed aboard.”

He keeps moving. As he walks, he taps instructions into the pad in his hand, making sure the crew—Jim’s crew, and now temporarily Spock’s crew—know the next steps they need to take. In Spock’s absence, Sulu will take charge, and he’s fully capable of running things; he just needs some guidance. “And?”

“They’re taking charge of the situation. And the crew.”

Irritation begins replacing the unease and worry, which is comforting in its own right. “That’s ridiculous,” Spock says. “It is I who should be in charge. After I, it is Sulu.”

“They think you’re compromised and that Sulu isn’t experienced enough to take over. But Spock.” As he tries to keep moving, she catches his arm and pulls him back. “This could be a good thing. Since you’re not in charge, it’ll be easier for you to go back to him. An acting captain wouldn’t be able to do that.”

Jim’s fear is growing. If Spock was any other vulcan, he would block off the emotion so he can operate without distraction—so he can operate only on logic. But it’s Jim on the other side, and Spock knows that Jim needs him. The bond also gives Spock constant updates on what Jim is feeling. If he severs or even blocks that bond, he won’t know if Jim is still alive.

“But,” says Uhura, “It also means you’ll have to ask the admiralty for permission.”

Fear, then pain. A flash of anger that isn’t Spock’s. He squeezes his eyes shut.

“Spock—”

“Where are they?”

“What?”

“Where are the people in—” He forces his eyes open and breathes in deeply. “Where are the new people in charge of the ship?”

“On the bridge.” She takes his arm again and pulls him toward the elevator. “Come on, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? Why is she calling him sweetheart?

“Out.” She points at all the people already in the elevator. “Get out.”

They look at each other.

“Take the next elevator,” she snaps. Murmuring to each other, they follow her directions, and Spock feels their dirty looks on him at an intensity much stronger than he’s comfortable with. “Good job. Good teamwork.”

Spock stumbles in after her. “Is there a reason why no one can ride with us?”

“You need privacy.” She isn’t looking at him. “I’m giving you privacy. Bridge.”

The computer chimes with confirmation and Spock’s fists tighten. “I am perfectly capable of maintaining my composure, Nyota.”

“I know.” Her eyes are sad. “But you don’t have to in here.”

She doesn’t understand that Spock doesn’t have a _choice_ : if he allows himself to display even the slightest modicum of emotion, he won’t be able to stop. It’s usually a struggle for him but now, full of Jim’s emotions too, he knows that just the slightest crack in resolve would break the dam he’s so carefully kept in place.

“Spock,” says Uhura quietly, “I was listening to those communications. You made a good decision. Jim would have done the same.”

“He would have gone back. No one left behind.”

“No offense, but you’re wrong, sir. He would have made the same decisions you did. If the roles were switched, he would be right here on this elevator with me.”

The elevator came to a stop. The doors slid open, displaying the colors that used to be so comforting to Spock.

“No,” said Spock quietly, stepping out with Uhura, “He would already be back in the air.” She opened her mouth to answer, but he was already wiping the emotion from his face and folding his hands behind his back, ready to argue his life away to the admiralty. He would give up anything to go back. He would do anything.

“Deep breaths,” Uhura whispers from behind Spock.

“Mister Spock,” says the admiral in Jim’s seat. “I assume you are Mister Spock—am I correct?”

Spock almost doesn’t answer. _Obviously_ he’s Spock. There aren’t any other vulcans in Starfleet. If the admiral didn’t know that, he wouldn’t be admiral. But he answers anyway, ironically because he is vulcan. “Yes, admiral.”

“We heard the mission reports, which is why we’re here. Initially we didn’t want to take charge, but I think it’s quite clear that you are…” He folds his hands in his lap and gives Spock a look one can only describe as contemptuous. “…compromised.”

“As per usual, admiral,” Spock said, his voice tight, “I am in full control of my emotions.”

The admiral gives Spock another look. This one is doubtful and even more contemptuous. Spock would be irritated if Jim’s fear wasn’t growing so exponentially. “Whether or not you are in full control,” he says, “We have decided you are incapable of properly running this ship and its crew.”

For a moment, Spock can’t reply. He is caught in Jim’s emotions and struggles to break free enough to breathe properly.

“See?” says the admiral.

“Whether or not I am in charge, the fact still remains that—”

“You are not in charge anymore, Mister Spock.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence on the bridge, now. The crew—Jim’s crew—look between Spock and the admiral, unsure of the choice between their loyalty and friendship to Spock and their duty to Starfleet and its admiral.

Spock tries again, his voice careful: “Admiral, I only meant to say that, whether or not I am in charge, Captain Kirk is still in danger.” He can feel it in his head and his chest and his hands—Jim’s terror, his anxiety, his quick flashes of pain when someone struck his face. _Hold on, Jim_.

“And?”

And? Spock wants to scream. _Hold on Jim. I’m coming back for you. I’m coming back_. “Admiral, Captain Kirk is a member of Starfleet, and it is our duty as members of Starfleet to conduct a rescue mission to retrieve him. If you are uncomfortable with the idea of sparing so many members, I would be more than willing to go on my own.”

“Mister Spock, your skills are needed elsewhere.”

_< Stay. Stay. Stay.>_

Spock shakes his head a little, distracted. Stay? What does that mean? “By whom?” he asks, resisting the urge to reach up and rub his temples.

“Mister Spock,” says the admiral, “You maintain a unique perspective and hold within yourself an unparalleled scientific expertise.”

_Hold on, t’hy’la_.

_< Stay. Don’t come after me.>_

That is Jim. That is unmistakably Jim. _Don’t say that_. “If I may, Admiral—”

“You may not,” says the admiral. Spock bristles. “You have a duty to Starfleet, Mister Spock, and I expect you to continue respecting and carrying out that duty.”

Spock’s teeth are clenched so tightly he’s beginning to get a headache, entirely independent of Jim’s own pounding temples. _Hold on, Jim. Please hold on_. “My duty is first to my captain, Admiral.”

The admiral’s lips curl. He has no qualms anymore about holding up his amiable front—now he displays his true self: vindictive, sour, despicable. “Your captain is _me_ ,” he snarls, “And your duty is to _me_.”

“Fine,” says Spock, “Then who are you sending to retrieve Captain James Kirk?” He leaves Jim’s rank in there, enjoying the look that comes upon the admiral’s face. But then that look returns to his usual contempt, and there is even a twist of cruelty in his eyes.

“No one.”

The first shock of pain comes then, and if Spock wasn’t Vulcan he would have doubled over. It is sharp and hot, sliding between his ribs like a knife. On Jim’s side, it likely _is_ a knife. _Hold on, hold on_. “Sir.” Spock speaks through the pain, his voice coming out strained and angry, “We cannot abandon the captain.”

“We can and we will, Mister Spock, and that is an order.”

Mister Spock, Mister Spock. He never uses Spock’s rank, and that is on purpose. He is Spock’s knife, reminding him with every sharp word that he has replaced Jim, that he is in charge of the ship, that Spock’s husband is so very far away from him. Mister Spock, Mister Spock.

“Admiral, I insist—”

“That’s quite enough, First Officer.” For the first time, the admiral uses one of Spock’s titles, but it doesn’t hurt any less; it is simply another reminder that Jim is gone, and that Spock should be at his side. “If I must, I will have you court-martialed.”

The shock of this comes with another stabbing pain, this time in Spock’s other side. He gasps and holds back tears. “Admiral, I ask you to please let me rescue him.” He never says ‘please’. He never does. He is an officer, and he asks permissions respectfully, but he never says ‘please’.

It has no effect on the admiral. In fact, it might have the exact opposite effect that Spock wanted: the admiral stands and, tall and regal, stares at Spock down his nose. “We will not risk war with the Klingons.”

Something hot on his neck. Spock, finally, buckles. He struggles to his feet. “He is being tortured as we speak!” _Hold on, ashaya. Hold on._

_< Don’t come! Don’t leave the crew! I’ll be fine!>_

No. He isn’t going to leave Jim. He sends a wave of resolve, of comfort, of his own presence, hoping at least some of it might comfort his husband.

The admiral opens his mouth. “Captain Kirk—”

“Is not expendable!” Spock snaps.

The admiral tries again. “One man—”

If Spock is in this much pain, how is Jim? How can Jim even think, let alone send Spock lucid thoughts? “I will not,” he says, “Leave him to die.”

The admiral tightens his jaw. “Get off my bridge, Mister Spock.”

+

Spock has Doctor Mccoy on his communicator before he’s off the elevator.

“Spock. What’s up?” His voice sounds strange.

“I assume you’ve heard the developments on the command officers of this ship.”

“That’s a lot of words to just say you were kicked off the bridge.”

Spock scowls. “Jim is still with the Klingons.”

The pity in the doctor’s voice swells. “I know. What can I do to help?”

Something like vindictiveness wraps itself around Spock’s heart. “I need you to do what you do best.”

The elevator jerks to a stop as Doctor Mccoy mulls this over. Spock steps out and moves toward his and Jim’s quarters.

“You’re going after him.”

“Of course I am.”

“And…you want me to go with you in case he’s injured.”

“No.” Spock unlocks his doors. “I’ve been strictly forbidden to put together any sort of rescue team.”

“Oh, and you’re a stickler for rules?”

Spock ignores this. He begins pulling open his and Jim’s drawers, searching so intently he almost doesn’t hear the doctor speak again.

“Spock, why can’t I go with you?”

“I’m not going to risk your career any more than necessary.” He leaves the last, implied words hanging in the air: Spock won’t allow anything Jim wouldn’t approve of, and Jim wouldn’t approve of Spock taking Doctor Mccoy with him while the doctor was not only banned from involvement, but also while he was legitimately needed elsewhere. “Your primary skills lie not within the medical field, Doctor, but rather in people.”

Despite the situation, the doctor laughs. “Was that a joke, Spock?”

“Not at all. Through our years working together, I noticed you had such a talent.”

Spock can almost hear the doctor struggling through this declaration, and he realizes he has been unintentionally cryptic. He can’t concentrate with Jim’s emotions, Jim’s pain, Spock’s fear of losing Jim, and, slightly smaller but still present: Spock’s fear of losing his career. “You have a knack for annoying people,” he says. At last he finds what he is looking for—the keys to Jim’s personal transport vehicle—and he jingles them between his fingers appreciatively.

“Oh,” says Doctor Mccoy. There is a pause. “Who am I annoying?”

Something sliced through Spock’s arm. He cradles it against his stomach and tries to breathe. “All of Starfleet,” he says. “Get on the bridge and give them Hell.”

He hangs up without waiting for an answer, under the logical conclusion that Doctor Mccoy has already made up his mind, and that it will be only minutes before he’s causing a technically-allowed-but-still-obstructive ruckus.

Tucking Jim’s keys into his pocket, Spock goes back into the hallway.

And runs straight into Uhura.

He recovers in an instant, smoothing his face over even as his other arm becomes hot with pain. “Lieutenant. Why—”

“We want to know how we can help,” she says. Spock tilts his head. His hand, still in his pocket, curls around Jim’s keys.

“We,” he repeats.

“Me and Sulu and Chekov and Chapel and Bones and—”

“The crew,” Spock says, and Uhura nods.

“Save for one or two people that came with the admiralty, they’re all on your side. On Jim’s side.” She takes a small step forward. “Spock, we’re all more than willing to put together a team if—”

“I’m not risking your careers.”

“No offense, sir, but we don’t give a shit about our careers. They’re all waiting for your orders.”

“Uhura, please.” Spock starts to reach out, hesitates, and then puts his hand back into his pocket. “I appreciate your offer, but I cannot risk your careers. Jim would not want that. He cares too much about you.”

“Then just take me.” Her expression is fierce. “Jim wouldn’t want you to go alone.”

“I need you here,” Spock says. “Help Sulu keep this ship in order. Work with the bridge crew and make sure no one is panicking, and that the admiralty doesn’t do anything too…”

“Stupid?” Uhura suggests when Spock’s voice trails off.

“Unwise.”

She snorts. “And you’re sure you don’t need help elsewhere?”

“We stopped here for a survey and for diplomacy. You should make sure that mission continues, whether or not both the captain and the first officer are…otherwise occupied.”

Uhura nods a few times. “Okay. I’ll let everyone know.”

Spock turns to leave.

“Hey, Spock?”

He looks back at her, and she pulls him into a hug.

“Be careful,” she whispers. “Bring our captain back to us. And I’ll kick your ass if you aren’t right there next to him.”

Something churns in Spock’s stomach and he blinks a few times, surprised to notice that he’s begun to sprout tears. The former he can promise to accomplish, knowing he will stop at nothing to bring Jim back; the latter, he isn’t so sure about. “Take care of the ship.” His voice sounds strangled. He spins around and runs toward the bay—sprints, really; the movement reflecting both his fear of confronting his feelings with Uhura and his terror for Jim.

_Hold on. Hold on._

+

The mission had begun normally enough. Initially it was just a survey; they’d landed on the planet, and Jim and Spock stood together for a few minutes, admiring the view. Admiring the towering mountains, the glittering purple sky, the waves gently lapping at the sandy beaches.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jim, as always, spoke softly; his demeanor rarely conveyed anything but softness, and if it did, it was usually cleverness.

“Very much so, t’hy’la.” Spock’s voice, in turn, was stiff, but he hoped Jim could sense the emotion behind it. Even after over a year of being bonded in both the human and Vulcan ways, Spock still had qualms about expressing his emotion and affections in front of the other members of the Enterprise. Jim shot him a smile. Spock yearned to kiss that smile.

“We’re approaching our eighteen-month anniversary,” Jim said suddenly, breaking the lapse of silence. Spock raised one eyebrow.

“Is that something humans celebrate?”

A laugh burst from Jim’s lips, loud and light. “Nope! But with you? I want to celebrate every moment we can.”

That was Jim. That was so wonderfully, completely, wholly Jim: he found joy in every moment of life, no matter how small or seemingly inane. If Doctor Mccoy or Spock didn’t continuously discourage him, Jim would likely throw a celebration every day.

It wouldn’t be a problem if they weren’t both members of Starfleet, but, alas, they both had their duties.

It had been five months since their last celebration and Jim was getting itchy for another. Always weak to his husband’s wishes, Spock gladly caved. He covered his smile with a scan of a nearby plant, even though he was already familiar with it. “And how would you like to celebrate?” He asked this warily—not because he didn’t want to celebrate, but because, when Jim threw parties, he threw the grandest of parties. He had no reservations in inviting the entirety of his crew (not just the bridge crew) to celebrate, and even less reservations about openly displaying his affections.

Spock did all of this five months ago. He’d enjoyed it at the time—the elation of such an anniversary overpowered his normally-present Vulcan need for privacy, and he more than gladly kissed his husband at the end of the apparently-required captain’s speech.

But it had only been five months. Spock wasn’t sure if he wanted to do the same thing after so little time. Sarek was at the last celebration, and he was still scandalized by how readily Spock held Jim’s hand; if Spock thought too hard about it, he approached the same attitude.

Jim must have sensed Spock’s growing apprehension, because as Spock backed away from his herbal examination, he said, “Don’t look so worried.”

Again, Spock raised an eyebrow. He’d done it before he and Jim started dating, but after Jim crowed about his love for the action, Spock had found himself doing so far more often. “My facial expression,” he said, “Did not change.”

Jim laughed and rolled his eyes. “Okay, then, don’t feel so worried.”

Spock couldn’t argue with or debate his emotion; once bonded, he couldn’t hide anything from Jim, much to Jim’s relentless pleasure. “How would you like to celebrate?” he asked again, touching a feathery leaf of a nearby fern. It recoiled from his hand.

Jim’s already huge smile got wider. “You. Me. Candlelit dinner on the observation deck. We can make out and no one will be watching.”

Immediately Spock’s ears got hot. He tried to busy himself with surveying the fern when Jim’s hand fell on his shoulder and he felt soft lips brush his neck.

“Does that sound nice to you?”

“Jim!” Spock swatted him away, glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of the crew saw anything. Under his breath, he said, “Yes. Yes, it sounds nice.”

“Good.” Jim rocked onto his heels and stretched his arms above his head, exposing a thin strip of his tanned stomach. “I’m glad you think so.”

Spock’s mouth was dry. “While I am always pleased to discuss dinner plans with you, Jim, should we not concentrate on the task at hand?”

“Absolutely, Mister Spock.” Discretely, hiding behind the bulk of their combined frames, Jim touched their fingers together. “I like the look of that plant over there,” he said, and moved his hand from their kiss to the air, pointing one finger toward a vivid orange tree across a short span of water. “Looks aquatic and you know what I say about aquatic things!”

Spock pretended to express impatience. “Aquatic things are awesome things,” he quipped, and Jim laughed.

“I’ll take the tricorder over there and you can stay on the beach.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “Take King with you.”

“King’s busy.” Jim waved a hand, dismissing Spock’s concern. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Captain.” Spock used his rank this time in an attempt to fully convey his dismay. “Don’t break protocol to convenience a security officer.”

Jim flashed Spock a smile and shrugged. “Well, you got me. I’ll take Erikson, then. Ensign!” Jim beckoned Erikson over and explained what he wanted to do as Spock finished taking data on the fern. “You’ll get wet.” These words were louder than the rest of the conversation, and when Spock looked over at him, Jim wiggled his eyebrows. The tips of Spock’s ears felt hot again. “But it’s no big deal. We have a dryer on the Enterprise.”

Erikson straightened her back. “I’m happy to help, Captain.”

They waded into the water together. Later, when he sat on the transport shuttle and allowed himself to abandon his husband, Spock would think about how normal everything was in this mission; while fascinating, it was nothing spectacular. It was beautiful, but it wouldn’t have been memorable if Jim wasn’t there with him.

He took a small sample of soil and analyzed it in his tricorder. Around him, the accompanying officers carried out their own individual tasks, and Spock found comfort in the bustle.

Then.

_Then_.

It happened suddenly. It happened just in a moment, in a breath, in a passing thought.

Spock almost didn’t notice them. He was so immersed in his survey that the first indication was the swaying of the grass in front of him. Then he noticed the trembling ground. Alarmed, he looked up.

The Klingons swarmed toward the landing crew in droves.

He scrambled backward, first, surprise overwhelming him. Then he looked at the water. Looked at Jim. Looked at Erikson. Something shattered.

“Jim!” he screamed. “Jim! Get to shore now!”

Jim was also consumed with his current project, but at Spock’s voice he turned his face upward, then looked behind him and saw the swarm. He swore, loudly. Then he grabbed Erikson and started splashing through the water as quickly as possible. Spock shouted orders for the landing party to board the ship. The Klingons were so _close_ —they were getting too close to Jim and Erikson and the panic was starting to show in Erikson’s face. Jim noticed. He swung Erikson over his shoulder and, with a shout at Spock, launched her to the shore.

Spock caught the ensign in his arms, deposited her on the beach, and screamed for Jim to run faster, but the Klingons had caught up already. They seized Jim’s arms and dragged him further into the water.

“Jim!” Spock entered the water without abandon, but three security officers caught at his arms, and Spock was dragged backward in a way so clearly mirroring Jim. “No! No! Jim!”

“Get out of here!” Jim shouted. “Get them out of here! That’s an order, Mister Spock!”

The security officers pulled at Spock again and Spock, dazed, stumbled back to the transport.

That’s how it happened. Just like that, Spock left him. Just like that, Jim was gone.

+

Spock comes in flashes.

Usually he is a constant, unwavering presence. Spock exists quietly to any other being in the universe, but to Jim he exists so wonderfully loud; his mind swirls with unending emotions and each facial expression conveys so much meaning that Jim can’t believe he ever thought Vulcans emotionless.

But now, Spock just comes in flashes. In bursts. It is only between the punishments—only when Jim has a moment to gasp for breath—that he can feel Spock. He begs him to stay away, but all he gets in return is comfort and reassurances and the whisper of a reminder that his t’hy’la will, unfailingly, always be there for him.

They dump Jim into his cell after a good hour and leave him there, shivering, bleeding, trying not to cry and miserably failing.

_Hold on_.

Jim holds onto the feeling of Spock’s mind against his for as long as he can. He weeps when it’s gone.

< _Don’t come. Stay there. Protect the ship._ >

He would add a ‘That’s an order’ if he thought it would make a difference, but he knows that it won’t. Already today he demanded Spock go against his instincts; it won’t work again. Spock is a good officer, but he isn’t a pushover.

He almost feels like Bones in the next thought that flits through his head: “Dammit, Spock!” If he had a more traditional first officer, this wouldn’t be happening. He could just order his crew to stay away and they would. There wouldn’t be any of this defiance of orders.

Groaning, Jim tries to lift himself into a seated position, but his hands slip on something wet and he crashes into the cold stone floor, his shoulder bending painfully underneath the weight of the rest of his body. He swears under his breath.

_Jim!_

< _I’m okay. Please stay there. Please don’t come._ >

A flash of stubbornness. Once endearing, now terrifying in its connotations; the worry freezes Jim to his very bones.

_I’m coming. Don’t give up_.

_< Spock—_>

_I’ve already left. There’s no going back._

No going back? What is that supposed to mean? Jim squeezes his eyes shut.

_I’m sorry, t’hy’la_. These words are mournful, full of regret. Jim chokes back a sob.

< _It isn’t your fault_ > Jim tries to steady his breathing through the tears. < _Spock, please. They have weapons._ >

No answer; only determination.

< _Spock, they disintegrated one of the prisoners. They’ll kill you_. >

If anything, the determination gets stronger, but now there’s a terribly deep anger in there, too. _I’m not leaving you._

If Jim could, he would send now a specific memory: walking through the Klingon ship—stumbling, really—seeing all the weapons as he passed, screaming as they shot at one of the prisoners and the prisoner evaporated into particles. Into dust. Into nothing. If he knew how, he would send his horror and his fear, but he isn’t Vulcan, and though he’s been in this bond for almost a year and a half, he only barely understands it. Spock can send comfort or irritation or love or exhaustion on demand; Jim can barely communicate over his current emotion.

The horror is gone. Jim feels almost numb. He lays on his side and feels wetness on his cheek and he worries for Spock and then he notices the wetness is warm.

He looks down at his hands: red. He wipes at his cheek: red. He moves his gaze to his shirt and sees engineering, security: red.

A laughter bubbles from his chest. “Ah, shit.” He leans against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut, presses his hands as tight as he can to the wound at his side he barely noticed before. “Ah, shit,” he says again, and the dams break.

+

There are powerful waves rocking the ship, and it takes Spock a long time to realize that they aren’t physical waves: they’re emotional waves. Jim’s sadness. His pain. His loneliness. Spock pushes the ship to go faster, but he’s already pushing its limits. It isn’t supposed to be a _fast_ ship—it’s just supposed to be functional. It’s just supposed to do the bare minimum. Unfortunately, right now, that’s all it’s doing.

_Hold on_.

For some reason, he can’t think of anything else to say. That’s all he can think: Hold on. Hold on. He just needs Jim to be okay until he gets there, and then they can figure things out from there. Just hold on until then.

_Please hold on_.

Jim’s concern about weapons barely phased Spock. So Spock might get killed—so what? All that mattered was Jim. Spock needed to survive only long enough to get Jim out.

He navigated closer to the Klingon ship and flicked up the switch that activated the cloak and shields, but he knew they wouldn’t make a difference. Both the cloaking and the shielding systems would be near-useless against a Klingon Bird of Prey, much less the behemoth floating in front of him now.

It had just been a diplomatic mission and a survey. Jim ordered the Enterprise to orbit the planet below them while their on-board diplomats dealt with the ship that joined them an hour afterward, and when that was underway, they beamed down to the surface. It was supposed to be simple. Jim pronounced it ‘fun’.

Fun! Spock would laugh if he could find it within himself.

He dodges a bolt the Klingons shoot toward him and pushes further toward the enemy. He is no pilot, but he is good enough; when Jim’s life is at stake, he has to be good enough.

_Where are you, t’hy’la?_ He puts some urgency in this thought, trying to discourage any further arguments on Jim’s part. Argue some other time—Spock needs the answer _now_.

< _I’m in a prison cell. I don’t know where_. >

Spock curses and then pretends that he didn’t for both his mother’s sake. He taps on the control panel in front of him, bringing up the on-board communicator.

“Is that you, Spock?” Uhura’s voice comes through the ship’s microphones hushed and worried. “The admiral is kicking up a storm. Bones roused up a storm and now the admiral’s trying to—”

“He won’t succeed in carrying out punishments,” said Spock. “There isn’t any proof he was acting on my account. Do you have the layout of this ship?”

“I can talk to Scotty—”

“I need them now, Nyota.”

“Okay, okay.” There’s some hurried typing on the other line. “Okay, I think I have it. I’m sending it your way.”

“I can’t look at it right now.” Spock dodges another shot. “Can you tell me where the prison cells are?”

A moment of silence. Spock tries hard not to get impatient.

“Uhura?”

“Here!” Her voice bursts out loud for a moment in her excitement, and then she lowers it again. “I sent the trajectory to your ship’s navigation.”

Spock glances down to confirm he received it. “Thank you, Uhura.”

“Please be careful.”

He signs off without saying goodbye and tries to understand what Uhura’s directions are telling him without getting destroyed by the incoming shots in the process. The bay is on the opposite side of the ship; if Spock wanted to go in that way, he would have to navigate through enemy territory for a long time. Jim could die in all that time.

Or.

Or he could go right to the cells. Right _next_ to the cells, that is. If somehow he got himself into the large area right outside the cells, he could have direct access to Jim from there. Less travel time, less opportunity to hurt his husband.

He steels himself. If Jim were here, he would smile briefly at the plan and then dismiss it, insisting they could all get through the ship if they worked together. If Nyota were here, she would tell him that he’s being an idiot, but she trusts him if he thinks that it’s what’s right. If Scott were here, he’d tell Spock the ship would never make it. Sulu would try to figure out how to fly the ship through the bay and then to the cells, just to see if it were possible. Doctor Mccoy would swear at Spock for a good ten minutes, and then he would swear some more.

Grimly, Spock smiles. The ship is coming closer. He checks one more time to make sure the shields are up. He can’t shoot his way in—the weapons on his ship aren’t near fast or powerful enough. But if, say, an entire ship were to crash into the shields at top speed, well.

He buckles his seatbelt and braces for impact.

+

He hears the commotion before he hears the crash. Everyone outside his cell is freaking out about _something_ , and Jim can barely care but he does notice it, and he is aware of it.

Chaos. First alarm, then panic, then the unmistakable _oh shit_ of a crew realizing something big is going to go down, and it won’t be in their favor.

He’s heard it many times before. He’s heard it _too_ many times before. He knows what it feels like to know that he’s screwed and that there’s nothing he can do about it. He knows hopelessness. He knows hopelessness intimately. He’s stared despair right in the eyes and he _won_ , and after that he resolved to dedicate his life to never putting somebody in a position in which they felt what Jim felt on the plains of ruins of Tarsus IV. His crew would never feel that. Even if the situation demanded hopelessness, Jim would be a good enough captain that his crew would always be able to find hope in him.

It is this that Jim recognizes, drearily, only barely coming through the haze of pain. When the explosion comes, he tries to open his eyes and fails.

< _Spock_. >

Nothing. Jim draws in a ragged breath.

< _Spock, was that you?_ >

Radio silence. Spock once described how Vulcans were touch telepaths, but that they could reach out with their minds if they needed to—and, through their bond, Jim could do the same thing.

“If you can’t reach me,” Spock had said, “Reach for me with your mind. You’ll know then if I put up a wall or if someone is preventing our communication.”

He’d explained all of this to Jim so logically, and though Jim agreed to practice with Spock, the practice had very quickly devolved into something no less meaningful but also significantly more carnal and a helluva lot less useful.

When it came to Spock, very rarely did Jim ever regret giving in to temptations. Now, however, he curses himself for not being able to keep it in his pants. Why hadn’t he practiced?

How had Spock told Jim to reach out with his mind? It was all about control, he’d said. Control of one’s own consciousness, as well as an awareness of oneself and their bondmate. And when had Jim _ever_ been capable of being aware of himself?

He pushes away the fact that he’s in pain. If Jim is good at anything, it’s that. He pushes that away and then he imagines Spock. Imagines the way he feels, sounds, looks, tastes. Imagines the way his brow furrows when he concentrates, his not-quite-so-subtle sighs of irritation (“I was just _breathing_ , Jim!”), his little gasps when Jim puts his mouth or traces his hand onto the right place. He imagines the way Spock blushes when Jim touches him in public, his apprehension, his unguarded elatedness at their anniversary.

He imagines all of this and then he’s there with Spock, and he feels him, and he _knows_ him.

_Jim_. Spock’s voice floats into Jim’s mind, and though Jim can’t hear the actual tone, he can sense the exhaustion that has so utterly consumed his husband.

< _Spock! Are you okay?_ > Jim knows there are cases in which bondmates could feel each other’s pain, but even if Spock was hurt, Jim doubts he would be able to differentiate the new pain from his already-present agony.

_I am unharmed._ Relief replaces the exhaustion. Jim can almost see the resulting curve of Spock’s lips. _I am nearby. I am almost there_. Now panic creeps in. Jim doesn’t know if it’s his or Spock’s or if it even matters in the first place. _Hold on_.

Jim’s hand has long since fallen from his side. The blood trickles, weakly, out his wound. A laugh bubbles out of his chest.

< _I know, baby. I’m holding on as best I can._ >

He tries to lift his hand again to at least try and stop the blood, but he can’t seem to move. Spock lingers in his mind. Is this what Spock meant when he said it would take Jim time to fully understand the bond? Is this what Spock feels all the time—the unrelenting, beautiful presence of his t’hy’la?

He can hear weapons firing. Shouting. He hears Spock speak again, but he can’t comprehend the words. He wonders if they’re ‘hold on.’ He hopes that they’re ‘I love you.’ The pain seems far away.

He slips, almost blissfully, into oblivion.

+

Spock knows he’s fading. He can _feel_ it. Every time he reaches out to Jim, it’s harder and harder.

He hides in one of the ship’s many compartments and waits, one hand pressed over the speaker of his communicator in case it chimes. If he’d thought of it, he would have silenced it before he crammed himself into this space, but now it’s too late: contorting himself enough to make turning the communicator to silent possible would make too much noise, and thus defeat the purpose.

He can have the Klingons move through the ship, searching for survivors. They pass him several times. His Klingon is rusty, but he can make out some of the conversation.

“They _said_ there was a life form on board.”

“Well, there’s no one here! Maybe it was on autopilot and the sensors malfunctioned.”

“Don’t be a fool!”

“Fine! Then the idiot killed themselves in the crash. You really think anyone could survive _this_?”

Spock can barely believe it, either. Crashing his ship through the Klingon ship’s shield is arguably the dumbest thing he’s done—the most illogical. He’d been acting almost purely on his emotions, and the idea of dying as a result of such an action only barely occurred to him.

By only quick ingenuity (i.e. extra protection via a tight space) and sheer luck, Spock is still alive. Dazed, bruised, and endlessly cursing his illogical tendencies, sure—but alive.

He exits his hiding place when he can no longer hear the Klingons meandering through the ruins of the ship and creeps out, phaser readily set to stun and clutched in one hand, the other hand free for a quieter takedown.

He administers a to’tsu’k’hy to the Klingon closest to the ship, catches her on one leg, and lowers her slowly to the ground. He does this twice more before someone notices and releases a war cry, and then Spock’s running and firing behind himself blindly.

Jim’s fading.

_Hold on_.

He ducks behind a corner and his phaser gives a pathetic hum. It’s old and hasn’t been used in ages; Jim had mastered his diplomatic skills enough for all their phasers to become more accessories than weapons. If Spock had had less confidence in his marksmanship, perhaps he would have taken his phaser to target practice.

Hubris was far too often Spock’s undoing.

He smacks the phaser against his hand. It sputters pitifully, but then it lets out a whir, and Spock dives around the corner and gives off a few more shots. One of the Klingons drops and Spock celebrates this small victory as he keeps running.

The map Uhura gave him had just enough information for Spock to know a few different ways to get to the cells, but he didn’t know what sorts of obstacles were in each path. A quick glance to his left revealed a heavy-duty door, which Spock could have gotten through if he had enough time, but the Klingons are too close to try, so that’s out. The same goes for the next possible path.

He runs faster. He’s quicker and lighter than the average Klingon; if he can get far enough ahead, he’ll have enough time to contemplate his next move.

_Hold on_.

He can barely feel Jim’s presence now. There are hints, but it’s absent enough that Spock feels a terrible sort of dread settling into the pit of his stomach.

_Please. Please hold on. Just a little while longer._

He spots a crawlspace and nearly dives into it. If he remembers correctly, this is part of the ventilation system, and it will lead him right to Jim with all the correct turns.

He pulls himself in just in time to escape the Klingons’ notice, and the ground rumbles as they all race past his hiding place.

Spock crawls.

He crawls with no regard to comfort—a man with such regard would move carefully on their knees, make sure their hands didn’t catch under the movement of their knees. Spock is desperate and reckless because of this desperation, and so he moves recklessly: his knees scrape at the connections of the metal panes on which he moves and the fabric of his pants and the skin underneath the fabric tear away and leave bloody trails of thread; his hands become greener and angrier and bloodier too, each time he misjudges his own movement and a knee lands on his fingers and crushes it against the harsh texture of the metal.

He methodically destroys himself, and then he’s pushing through a grate and dropping into the cell block and then—

Jim’s gone.

It hits Spock like a bullet, like a train, like the Enterprise at warp speed.

Jim’s _gone_.

He can see a hint of yellow in the cell next to him and he knows it’s his Jim but—

He’s gone. The space he so generously filled in Spock’s mind is empty. There’s nothing. The presence that’s been there for _years_ is totally and utterly and completely gone.

Spock realizes he’s screaming. He’s on his knees and he’s keening, wailing, bellowing, sobbing. The Klingons barrel toward him and he snaps their necks almost without thinking and flings their corpses against the cell door and he staggers to Jim when the door breaks and he takes Jim’s body in his arms and he weeps over the empty shell.

The light of Spock’s universe—his sun and stars, his lover, brother, friend—extinguished in just an instant, and it’s because Spock was only a moment too late.

Why him? Why _him_?

He’d asked the question about Jim before. First, he’d been dismayed by Jim’s flagrancy with emotions and that he would have to be second-in-command with such a person. Then he’d cursed the feelings he’d begun to develop. Then he wondered to the universe how he could have found someone so perfect for him.

And now. Now he doesn’t know to whom he directs the question, but he begs all the same: why _him_? Why can’t it have been Spock, who can transfer his consciousness? Why not Spock, who is comfortable with the idea of death and comfortable that Jim would find light elsewhere, as he somehow always does? Why _him_?

Jim’s body is still warm. There are still traces of him in his mind, and Spock—

Determination suddenly takes over everything at once. He whips out his communicator.

“Spock! Are you okay? Is Jim—”

“I need your help.” Spock’s voice is hoarse. Doctor Mccoy, always so gruff, softens.

“Whatever you need. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Jim is—” The words catch. A tear spatters onto Spock’s hand, rolls across his skin, and falls onto Jim’s cheek. “Jim is—” He can’t say it. He _knows_ , but he can’t say it out loud.

“Does he have any wounds?”

Spock tugs up Jim’s shirt. He examines the torso he was kissing just hours before, now so torn apart it’s barely recognizable. “On—on his torso. His arms.” He’d felt these wounds—had felt them as they arrived. He hadn’t thought they were this bad. He hadn’t _dared_ to think they were this bad.

“Has he lost a lot of blood?”

“Yes, he—” Spock chokes again when he sees the puddle they’re in, and a sob escapes before he can stop it. “Oh, it’s so _much_.”

“It’s okay, Spock. Take deep breaths.”

“It’s _not_ okay! He’s _dead_!” These words come out easily, but Spock knows it’s only because of that quick burst of anger.

“You think I’ve never gotten a dead patient? It isn’t the end of the world. Just a flesh wound.”

“The blood—”

“Can be replaced,” the doctor says firmly.

“The bond—”

“Dead is dead. But that doesn’t mean he’s gone forever.” There’s a sound on the other line—Dr. Mccoy clicking through a computer. “How advanced is the technology on that ship?”

“Comparatively? Standard.” Somehow, asking reasonable questions prompts Spock’s brain to provide reasonable answers, albeit around his tears.

“Do you know where the med bay is?”

Spock hadn’t been looking for the med bay. “Uhura has the map of the ship.”

Silence for a few long seconds. Spock, trembling, brushes the hair out of Jim’s face. Then, “You’re lucky it’s so close by. Exit the cell block and hang a left for about a hundred meters. Should be on the right. I’d tell you to leave Jim behind so you can maneuver better, but—”

“No. I’m not leaving him. Not again.”

“I know.”

Spock struggles to his feet. He picks up Jim—an action he’s done a million times before, and puts him over his shoulder. Just weight. Dead weight. No playful pinching or smacking of his backside, no joyful squealing. Dead weight.

“Doctor.” Spock’s legs buckle under this weight. “The admiralty—”

“Don’t matter. You know better than that, Spock. Don’t concentrate on things that don’t concern the immediate situation.”

He almost wishes the doctor would say something like “Dammit, Spock!” or use some other human slang to express displeasure at Spock’s actions; he wants the doctor’s anger, but all he gets is the soothing tones he’s heard the doctor use with his patients so many times.

“Just concentrate on getting through this,” Doctor Mccoy says. “I know it’s hard, but with the technology on that ship, we should be able to bring Jim back.”

Spock takes all his emotions and shoves them into the furthest corner of his mind. He’s done this many times before, but it’s been years since the last time. Jim made him feel like it was unnecessary—that he should accept and even embrace his emotions.

Now, though, if he embraced his emotions, he wouldn’t be able to focus. He doubts he would even be able to move. The fragile hold he always has over his emotions was almost not enough to stop Spock from completely falling apart.

He adjusts his hold on the body, says, “Tell me where to go,” and then he starts running.

+

It feels like someone stabbed him. Possibly several times over. Possibly everywhere in his body. He might have also been attacked by a vampire—Spock says they don’t exist, but they’ve run into weirder things before, and it’s reasonable—even _logical_ —to assume there is at least one species of blood-suckers. And that species must have sucked the hell out of Jim.

This makes him laugh, and then that just makes everything hurt more.

“Are you kidding me?” A voice crackles loudly right next to Jim’s ear. “First thing the bastard does is _laugh_?”

Warmth, now. Jim’s suddenly surrounded with warmth.

“Jim. Jim.”

“Spock?” He pries his eyes open and sees his husband’s face hovering above him, spotted green with blood and flushed with worry. “Spock, baby, what happened to you?” There are wounds all over Spock’s face. Jim tries to sit up and sees that Spock’s clothes are a myriad of both red and green over the science blues. “Baby, your _hands_.” They’re in tatters. They’re scraped to all hell, and each open wound is still dripping.

Spock stares at him, and then his shoulders hunch and he bursts into tears. Alarmed, Jim takes Spock in his arms.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Jim, you idiot.” Bones’s voice comes through what Jim now sees is a communicator, irritated and tired. “You _died_.”

“I…” Jim looks back down at Spock, who is still sobbing, and his eyes widen. “What?”

“Jim, you—you—” Spock speaks in gasping breaths, his shoulders trembling. Jim’s seen Spock cry before but now he’s _crying_. “Jim, you were gone. You were gone. You were—”

“It’s okay.” Jim holds him tighter. “It’s okay, baby, I’m back now.” To Bones, he says, “What the hell happened?”

“You died from your injuries. Spock arrived just in time to get you to some good ol’ Klingon war medicine.”

“Are we still…” Jim looks around to confirm that, yes, they’re still on the Klingon ship, and they are also surrounded by at least five bodies. Klingon bodies. “Oh. Jesus.”

“They were.” Spock covers his mouth and hiccups a few times. It would be cute if he wasn’t absolutely covered in actual blood, sweat, and tears. “They were talking about what they’d done to you.”

Jim blinks at him.

“I know I shouldn’t have but I—”

“No, no. It’s okay,” Jim says, catching Spock in his arms again. “It’s okay.”

“Now get back home,” says Bones, still growling, “And deal with this idiot on the bridge.  Bones out.”

Idiot on the bridge? Jim wants to ask, but he isn’t sure this is the best time. He also wants to know why Bones is calling himself Bones, which he never does.

Huh. He was probably freaking out. What a big softie. Jim laughs again. Spock wipes at his eyes.

“Why are you laughing?” He’s still hiccupping, and Jim, gleefully, kisses him.

“I’m absolutely convinced vampires exist, Bones is a softie, and I’m so goddamn glad to be back.”

Spock doesn’t reply. The tears have slowed, but he’s just staring at Jim with his mouth slightly open.

“I think I went to Hell,” Jim adds.

Still no reply. Now the tears have completely stopped. Jim realizes he’s probably shocked Spock into stopping his own crying.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what it’s like?”

Spock’s eyebrows draw together.

“Pearly gates,” says Jim. “Met God. She was cute. But no you.” And he punctuates this with a grin. Something drips from his mouth and he knows it’s blood, but somehow that just makes the whole situation funnier. He starts laughing. Spock chuckles with him, looks surprised, and then starts laughing too. “There you are!” Jim kisses him again.

“Don’t kiss me right now. We’re both injured.”

“Has that ever stopped us?”

Spock actually considers this as he wipes the tears off his face. “No. But we’re in enemy territory, and we need to leave.”

“Just one?”

All of the breath rushes out of Spock’s lungs and he gives Jim a look that is both relieved and amused. “Fine.”

Jim yanks him close and presses their mouths together. One hand seeks out Spock’s hand and he kisses Spock with his fingers, too—just a quick brush, and Spock laughs against his mouth.

“That’s cheating. That’s two kisses.”

“Are you complaining?”

There are noises in the distance. Spock looks over his shoulder and the amusement evaporates from his face. “We need to leave.”

“Right, yeah.” Jim tries to get up. Pain shoots into his body from all sides. He swears and falls back onto the surface he’s stretched across. “That isn’t good.”

“You were stabbed several times.”

“Yeah, I’m definitely feeling that.”

Spock huffs out something that might have been another laugh. “Come here. I’ll carry you.”

“What? Baby, it would slow you down—”

“You seem to have forgotten that I am much, much stronger than you, Jim.”

Jim shivers with pleasure. “Yeah you are, baby.”

“Are you _flirting_ with me?”

“I sure am!”

Spock shakes his head. He tucks one arm under Jim’s knees and one under his shoulders and hauls him upward and over his shoulder. Jim, unable to resist, pokes his backside.

“You look good from this angle.”

“And you, Jim, are delirious from the pain.” Spock starts moving and Jim tries not to immediately cry out from the pain. When he makes his noise of indignation, some of that cry slips out, but he did his best.

“I am _not_. Your ass looks good. Everyone knows that.”

“Everyone,” Spock repeats. He moves cautiously through the ship, holding his phaser high in his free hand.

“Yeah. Everyone. Uhura? Sulu? Chekov? Scotty? Bones? Everyone.”

“I find it hard to believe the doctor had anything of the like to say about me.”

“Bones is always nice to you!”

“Lying does not become you, Jim.” Spock moves sharply, now; Jim cries out and Spock releases a shot from his phaser.

“Those on stun?” Jim gasps out.

“Yes, dear.” Spock’s hand tightens around Jim’s thigh. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He isn’t, really. Each move Spock makes increases how awful Jim feels, which he didn’t think was possible. “I can walk—” he starts to say.

“No. You can’t.” Spock performs another quick maneuver, dodging one blast and firing over his shoulder.

“At least give me a phaser so I can watch your back.”

Spock ducks into an alcove for cover. He isn’t even breathing that hard. “I don’t have another phaser, Jim, and I imagine yours was taken from you.”

“So grab me one of their weapons. Can’t be that hard, right? Just pull the trigger and off it goes.”

Spock hesitates for a second.

“It won’t hurt me, Spock.” Just because his luck is the worst, Jim coughs up blood as he says this and has to away the red from his mouth, hoping Spock didn’t notice. “Come on. I can cover you and you won’t have to worry about me so much.”

“Very well,” Spock says at last. “I’ll see if I can grab a weapon for you. If it’s too much, promise me you will drop it.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll drop it.”

“Promise me, Jim.”

Jim scowls. “Okay, I promise.”

Spock touches Jim’s mind with comfort and amusement and Jim’s scowl, against his will, softens.

“Anyone tell you you’re a big ol’ softie, Spock?”

Slowly, Spock leans around the corner. He fires off several shots and then ducks back behind his cover. “You have, Jim. Frequently. The rest of the crew, save perhaps for Doctor Mccoy, know better than to insult me like that.”

If they weren’t married—if Jim couldn’t feel and understand every one of Spock’s wonderfully weird Vulcan emotions—he would have worried over this kind of response. Hell, before they got married, Jim worried over this kind of response all the time. _The rest of the crew know better than to insult me like that_. That doesn’t mean that Spock thinks what Jim says is an insult. It just means that, if anyone else said it, he would take offense. Jim is an exception. Jim is usually an exception.

“Are you doing okay?” Spock asks.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Are you lying to me?”

Jim laughs and feels fresh blood leak from his side. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”

“You frustrate me, Jim.”

“Yeah. I frustrate me, too.”

Spock finally leaps from behind the wall and starts running again, swooping down and catching a weapon from one of the fallen Klingon warriors. He holds it over his shoulder and Jim grabs it as quickly as he can so Spock has that hand free again.

“You give anyone the classic to’tsu’k’hy?” Jim shouts over the noise as he tries to find the trigger.

“Don’t speak Vulcan right now, Jim. You know it distracts me.”

The trigger is at the base of the weapon, oddly enough. It was designed to be held with one hand so it could also be used as a club—or, if the end is as sharp as it looks, as a knife. “I know,” says Jim with another smile, and he points the weapon at an approaching Klingon and pulls the trigger. The shot hits their left knee and they tumble to the ground, screaming expletives at Jim. “Yeah! Screw you too!”

“Their insult was much more colorful.” Spock finds some more cover and gives his phaser some time to cool.

“Aren’t all insults basically some form of ‘screw you’?”

“I suppose so.”

“Am I still distracting you?”

“Yes.” For some reason, the relief in Spock’s mind seems to leak from every pore. Jim would comfort him if he knew how.

Instead, he smacks his palm against the Klingon weapon. “You know, these are pretty cool. You should get one for yourself.”

“You think?”

Jim wishes he could see Spock’s face—wishes he could see that tiny little smile he _knows_ is curling the edges of Spock’s mouth. “Yeah, definitely. They’re very effective.”

“Is there a ‘stun’ setting?”

There’s a hint of wariness in his voice: Spock’s killed tonight. He doesn’t want to do it again.

“I haven’t found one yet. I’ve been aiming for the legs.”

“I would rather not have one, then, thank you. The phaser seems to be working just fine. In any case, we’re almost to the bay.”

“The bay?”

“We do need a ship, Jim.”

Jim’s getting dizzy from hanging upside down. He squeezes his eyes shut a few times. “What happened to yours?”

Spock winces.

“Spock?”

“I took your private transport and crashed it through the shields.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry.”

Jim’s stomach feels queasy. “That’s…the most me thing you’ve ever done, honey.”

“I am well aware. That is why I am apologizing.”

That makes Jim laugh. “I’d be insulted if I didn’t know how right you are.” He readies himself for Spock to start running again. “Promise not to do it again?”

There’s a flicker of something strange and foreign just at the edge of Jim’s mind. It feels like Spock, but it also feels unfamiliar.

“Spock,” says Jim, suddenly uneasy again.

“I promise,” says Spock. “Are you ready?”

Jim tries to twist himself up to look at Spock but fails when his cuts tear open more. He falls back to his original, hanging position. “Is there something I need to know, Mister Spock?” There’s professionalism in his voice, and he doesn’t try to hide it.

“Nothing of import, Captain.” Spock slips easily into his own professional role. “If it remains to be a pressing matter, we will discuss it when we are out of danger.”

That’s enough for Jim, at least. He holds the Klingon weapon tightly and curls upward a little so he can see better. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Spock takes them out from behind their cover. He runs.

+

The bay is bustling with activity. Spock supposes he shouldn’t be surprised; the Klingons know that the ship in which he arrived is in shambles, and will not serve him in his escape. They know that he needs a ship.

So, instead of the few guards that Spock knows usually patrol the bay, there’s an entire army. He pulls Jim from his shoulder and puts him behind a stack of cargo.

“What’s up?” Jim’s breathing is labored. He’s been trying to hide it, but Spock has felt every stab of pain in his own body, and he knows that Jim is suffering a lot more than he lets on. “Is anything wrong?”

He hadn’t seen all of the Klingons. Spock looks down at his phaser and takes a deep breath. “There are more enemies than I previously imagined, Jim. I do not know if we can reach one of the ships.”

“ _Any_ of the ships?” Jim tries to pull himself upward to look over the cargo, but Spock pulls him back down. “Spock.” He sounds almost offended.

“Don’t give me that look, Jim.”

“I’ll have you know that I am a _masterful_ tactician.”

“I am aware, Jim.”  

“So let me help!”

Spock peers over the cargo. So far, they’ve slipped in unnoticed. Their journey to the bay had been successful enough that the rest of the Klingons hadn’t figured out which pathway they’d taken, and they’d made little enough noise that they hadn’t garnered any attention from the Klingons already inside the bay. “Fine,” he says, “But quickly.”

He helps Jim up, helps him look around the bay, and then pulls him back down.

“Huh,” says Jim, “The smaller ones are pretty far. But there’s a bird that’s pretty close to us.”

“We can’t fly a bird of prey by ourselves, Jim.”

“I think we can. Why not?”

“It requires a crew. The two of us are not a crew, and we would make a poor crew even if we were one. We are the both of us too far injured to be—”

“We stole the Enterprise before.”

They did. Spock glances at the bird of prey and then crouches next to Jim, mulling it over.

“I can just run behind you,” says Jim.

“No. I will still carry you.”

“Don’t put yourself at risk just because you’re worried about me.”

If Spock was not half Vulcan, he would have laughed at this—would have scoffed at the ridiculousness. Don’t put himself at risk _just because_ he’s worried about Jim? Really? He’s done that so many times. He would do it as many times as was necessary.

“You’ll let me run,” says Jim, and his eyes harden in the way they always do when he’s in command in a dangerous situation, “And that is an order, Mister Spock.”

So he’s pulling that card. It most certainly works, too, which is the most frustrating part of it all. Every time those words fall from his lips ( _That is an order, Mister Spock_ ), Spock gets a shiver up his back and the immediate compulsion to do whatever his husband says.

“If…you’re sure,” he says hesitantly.

“I don’t appreciate the fact that you don’t believe me,” says Jim, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief.

“You can’t possibly not know why I don’t believe you,” Spock returns with just as much bite to his voice.

“Ah, shut up.” The authority is completely gone from his voice; he grins at Spock and his teeth are splotched red with blood.

“That isn’t very professional of you, Jim.” Spock steals another look at the bay; something is attracting the Klingons to the other side of the room. He can’t tell what it is.

“Your hands.” Jim’s tone is suddenly soft. He reaches out with his free hand and touches his fingertips to Spock’s palm—not a kiss, but an act of great concern.

“It does not bother me.” That is the truth, at least. Current events have distracted Spock enough, not to mention he’s more worried about Jim than himself.

Jim’s fingertips move to trace his own palms, and Spock realizes he feels Spock’s pain; on top of everything he already feels, he also has to deal with Spock’s pain.

“Oh.” Spock kisses Jim’s cheek. “I’m sorry, ashaya.”

Jim shakes his head. “It isn’t your fault. How’s the coast looking?”

Spock lifts himself up. The Klingons have almost all gathered now on the opposite side of the bay. Is it a trap? He can’t tell. If he makes the wrong move, all that they’ve done could prove to be for nothing. “They’re moving away from us,” Spock says. “I can’t tell why.”

“Are we safe to go?”

“I don’t know. This may be a trap.”

From Spock’s side, a low combination of tones. Spock fumbles with his communicator. He’s surprised it didn’t get destroyed on the way here.

“First Officer Spock here.”

“Sir.” Uhura’s voice comes through clear and strong.

“Uhura? If someone catches you—”

“You’re in the bay, right?”

Spock blinks. “Yes. How—”

She interrupts him again. “There are trackers in your suits that I can locate by scanning the ships. Are the Klingons moving away from you?”

“Yes. Is that your doing?”

“Yes. I’m sending sound waves to that side. You should move now before they figure out it’s a trick.”

“You’re a wizard genius, Nyota,” Jim says, pulling himself to his feet. Uhura lets loose a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

“Come home safe.”

Spock flips his communicator to a close. Then he takes Jim’s hand and they run together, and Spock feels pain that is a combination of his own pain and Jim’s pain. Jim stumbles but Spock pulls him forward, forcing him to move, forcing him to push through the pain.

He just has to hope he isn’t putting Jim in danger by doing so.

They reach the Klingon bird of prey after what feels like an eternity but was probably only actually a couple of seconds. Spock slams his hand on the controls to open the door. Someone shouts behind them—they’ve been noticed. Spock shoves Jim onto the ship and clamors on after him.

“Go! Go! Go!” he shouts, and Jim stumbles toward the cockpit, apparently fueld by Spock’s words. “Start up the ship!”

Miraculously, Jim finds the button before he collapses into one of the chairs, chest heaving, one hand pressed to his side. Spock dives into the pilot’s seat and starts flipping switches.

“Ashaya, are you well enough to use my communicator?” Spock would, under normal circumstances, allow Jim his much-needed rest, but at present he knows his own hands are too busy to do all the work himself.

Jim’s panting. “Yeah, I’m okay. What do you need me to do?” He reaches across the space between them and slides his fingers along Spock’s waist until he finds the communicator.

“Get in contact with Uhura. Make sure she knows we’re coming and what sort of ship we’re in.”

Jim releases a nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t it suck if the Enterprise gunned us down after all of tha?”

Spock spares him a glance as he works the controls. The bird of prey, slowly, lifts into the air. “Yes, ashaya.”

Jim flips open the communicator and starts talking. Spock, too distracted to pay attention to the conversation, works on opening the bay doors.

“Buckle in,” he says, and a moment later he propels the ship forward, and the force of their movement knocks back their assailants, and then they’re free.

“Where’d you learn how to fly a bird of prey?” Jim asks in the resounding silence of their escape. Spock puts their trajectory toward the Enterprise and relocates himself to the firing controls.

“I find it imperative to understand the enemy.”

Jim laughs. Then he coughs. “Damn, baby,” he says, “What _can’t_ you do?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I appreciate the compliment, Jim, but I feel compelled to point out the fact that we are currently being pursued by a very dangerous enemy, and you are bleeding all over the seats.”

Jim sidles up behind him. “Give me a kiss?”

Why isn’t Spock surprised? But still he reaches out two free fingers, and Jim connects their fingers, and Spock feels a rush of peace.

“What can I do to help?”

Spock takes his hand back to hold the firing controls with both hands, squeezing out a few warning shots to their pursuers. “Sit. Buckle into your seat. Make sure you don’t bleed out.”

“Hey, you could always give me a blood transfusion if all else fails.”

“You know I would do anything for you, Jim.” Spock checks the sensors. The Klingon ships are backing off, deciding in all likelihood that retrieving their bird of prey isn’t worth facing off a Federation starship. He slides back to the pilot’s seat and straps himself in.

“But?” Jim’s teasing word draws Spock’s eye to him: he’s pale and slumped in his chair, too weak to hold himself up anymore, but his smile is bright enough to outshine the sun.

“But I’m never putting my blood in you.”

“Afraid I’ll turn Vulcan?”

“I shudder to imagine it.” Not that Spock finds Vulcans at all unattractive; on the contrary, he has found himself pining over his vulcan peers many times before. And he knows, logically, that if his blood were to affect Jim at all, it would make him ill sooner than it would make him, in any sense of the word, Vulcan, but merely the suggestion of the possibility that Jim might lose that unrelenting torrent of emotion that makes him Jim horrifies Spock in ways he cannot describe.

“I don’t know,” says Jim, “I think having pointed ears would be kind of hot.”

Spock sighs. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love me for it.”

“Yes. I do.” Against his initial judgment, and definitely against Sarek’s judgment. Amanda, unsurprisingly, had been very open to such a relationship even before it began (even before Spock considered it a possibility). Sybok, upon hearing of Spock’s blossoming relationship, responded by sending frequent and lewd suggestions and commentary about Spock’s sex life, peppered with genuine advice that, oddly enough, occasionally helped. Michael heard through the Federation grapevine, and as Spock’s older sister, she said, it was her responsibility—no, her obligation; her _duty_ to make sure Jim was good enough for her “baby brother.” She spent only a few minutes with him before declaring upon him her unending, unbridled love and devotion and demanding a part of their wedding (which she got: she, along with T’Pring, Uhura, and Chapel, was one of what Jim called Spock’s “groomsmaids”).

“Ashaya,” says Spock suddenly, reality jerking him into the present, “When we reach the Enterprise, please go with Doctor Mccoy to the med bay without argument. You are still in dire need of medical attention.”

“Yeah,” says Jim, “Sure.”

Spock is so surprised that his hands jerk at the controls, tilting the ship wildly off course. He steadies them. “I did not expect that to be that easy.”

“No, I get it. Usually I would argue, but… I’m exhausted. And I died. I could use Bones’ hands and possibly a drink as well.”

Spock moves the ship closer to the Enterprise. He can see, distantly, the bay doors opening. So the admiral is letting them on. They have that, at least.

“Will you promise to go to the med bay, too?”

“My injuries are not—”

“Don’t make me give you an order, Spock. You complain about me bleeding everywhere but you’ve turned the controls green, so…”

“Fair enough. I’ll go to the med bay when I can. I have to visit the bridge first to take care of some things.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” Spock guides the ship to the entrance of the bay.

“Identify yourself.” Chekov’s voice comes through the ship’s communication lines.

“What’s Chekov doing in the bay?” Jim asks, but Spock ignores him.

“First Officer Spock and Captain Kirk, requesting to dock.”

A moment of silence passes before Chekov’s voice comes back. “First Officer Spock and Captain Kirk, you are free to dock.”

+

The door slides open. Spock helps Jim out of his seat and passes him to the medical team waiting in the bay. He presses their lips together. He pretends that it isn’t probably the last time he’ll get to do that.

“I’ll take care of him.” A hand falls on Spock’s shoulder and Spock turns to face Doctor Mccoy, who’s giving Spock a gentle smile.

“I know you will,” says Spock. “I do not doubt your abilities. Jim is in good hands. Officer!” Spock waves over a passing red-shirt. He doesn’t recognize her, and thus assumes she must have come aboard with the admiral.

The officer snaps to attention in front of Spock. “Yes, sir—ah.” Her professionalism wilts when she looks past his rank and sees who he is.

“Spock,” says the doctor. There’s a hint of something in his voice, like he knows what Spock is about to do.

Spock ignores him. He connects gazes with the officer, who is steeling herself for what she knows is her duty. “I assume you have the authority to make arrests,” he says, “And I also assume you know who I am. Am I correct in these assumptions?”

Eyes wide, the officer nods.

“Very well, then.” Spock extends his wrists toward the officer. Doctor Mccoy makes a noise of protest. “I am surrendering to you for arrest. I am unarmed. My phaser, as well as several Klingon weapons, remains inside the ship.”

She fumbles with her cuffs.

“Dammit, Spock,” the doctor hisses, “Does Jim know about this? Did you tell him?”

Spock locks eyes with him as the officer closes the cuffs around his wrists. Her hands brush his, and he has to fight himself to not pull away. “No. And I trust you will not, either. Jim needs to heal without stress.”

Doctor Mccoy struggles with this. “He’ll find out. He’ll ask where you are.”

“I have always admired your ability to delay the inevitable,” Spock says. To the officer, now: “You may take me where you need to take me.”

“Don’t be stupid, Spock.” Doctor Mccoy does a sort of half-gallop to keep up with Spock’s and the officer’s longer legs.

“I do most of what I do through logic alone, Doctor Mccoy. We both knew this would happen when I abandoned my post.”

“You haven’t abandoned shit! It’s your duty to—”

“Doctor,” the officer interrupts. They’re standing in the lift; Doctor Mccoy, for some reason, slipped in after them. “Please return to the medical bay to perform your duties.”

Doctor Mccoy growls at her.

“Leonard,” Spock says quietly, “Please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. Go look after Jim. Go heal him”

“Visit him,” the doctor says, “When you can.” And he steps out of the elevator without waiting for an answer.

The officer presses a button.

They go up.

As they flew back toward the Enterprise, Spock had thought about what he might feel during this ride. He thought it would mirror the ride after the Klingons took Jim: that empty, hollow feeling; the sickly pit in his stomach; the frantic, wild desperation.

But he doesn’t feel anything like this. He almost feels nothing at all.

It isn’t numbness. Spock knows numbness—he’s sought numbness for almost the entirety of his life. This isn’t numbness. This is…it’s calm. Jim is in capable hands, and he’ll be okay. That’s all that matters. Spock’s career—his future in Starfleet—that doesn’t matter to him at all right now.

If everything went terribly wrong and they sent Spock to prison for what he’s done, he’ll at least be able to see Jim from time to time in between Jim’s deployments. Spock will miss the stars, and he’ll miss his family among them, but that is the sacrifice he made in exchange for Jim’s life and wellbeing, and he would do it again in half a heartbeat.

Just seeing his smile again made all of that clear as day.

“Before we get to the bridge,” says the officer suddenly, “I wanted to say, sir…”

Spock raises an eyebrow at her.

“I was on the bridge when you argued with the admiral. I thought the admiral was…well, I thought you were in the right. Beyond the fact that you’re his first officer, I…I’ve met the Captain. He’s the most generous, most kind person I’ve ever spoken to. I think, if put in the same position, I would do the same thing.”

“Yes,” says Spock, “Jim has that sort of effect on people.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t do anything about it.”

“No need to apologize,” says Spock. He resists the urge to add that no one else had done anything, either—that Jim’s crew had been so perfectly fractured that none of them would have had the power to make any difference at all. The admiral had seen to that.

The elevator comes to a stop. The doors slide open. Spock steels himself.

“Mister Spock,” says the admiral. His voice drips with smugness. “I didn’t think I would be seeing you again.”

“I have performed my duty as first officer,” Spock says, “And am now surrendering to whatever punishment you see fit.”

A flicker of surprise. “Is that so?”

“I recognize that you are the admiral, and that you gave an order, and that I ignored it in favor of my typical duties under Captain Kirk. I am willing to deal with the consequences for these actions.”

There is a fire somewhere behind the admiral’s eyes; perhaps he had wanted Spock to fight back, to resist, to display a human emotion with which he could tear Spock apart.

Spock won’t give him that satisfaction. Jim is okay. He can remain calm as long as he keeps that in his mind.

“You understand, Mister Spock, that you not only deliberately disobeyed an admiral of Starfleet, but also that you stole Starfleet property and were absent without leave.”

Spock swallows. “I would also like to add, admiral, that in my escape attempt from the Klingon ship, while protecting Captain Kirk, I killed several Klingons. I am willing to accept punishment for these actions, as well.”

He can almost hear Doctor Mccoy in the back of his mind saying, “Dammit, man, don’t you ever know when to shut up?”

He pushes that aside, puts his chin up high, looks the admiral right in his beady eyes.

“And Captain Kirk? What were his crimes?”

“He committed no crimes.”

“Is that so?” They’re the same words he spoke only moments before, but now they’re distrustful rather than tinged with surprise.

“He was too injured to move without my assistance, Admiral. Even if he wished to commit a crime, it would be difficult for him to do so.”

“But he aided you in your crimes.”

“If you are referring to my disobeying your orders, Admiral, he had and still has no knowledge of the situation. I ensured that to aid his healing process.”

“And the deaths? Do you claim his non-complacency in those, as well?”

“I do. Captain Kirk was unaware of his surroundings.”

“He was unconscious? How can you be so sure?”

“He was not unconscious in the traditional sense, Admiral. Captain Kirk, while I killed the Klingons, was already dead.”

Silence stretches across the bridge. The admiral, again, looks surprised, but this time he has nothing to say.

“He was dead for a full half hour,” Spock continues; “I arrived just at the moment of his death.”

“You can’t have—” the admiral suddenly says, desperately reaching to find some inaccuracy in Spock’s testimony; if he’s wrong in one case, he may be wrong in another, and the admiral cannot stand to lose.

“I _can_ know, Admiral, and I did. The bond I have with Captain Kirk is all at once mental, physical, and spiritual. I am constantly aware of his presence, and I was most certainly aware when that presence was gone. With all due respect, do not presume to know the intricacies of Vulcan culture.”

Another terrible silence. Then the admiral nods. “Very well, Mister Spock. You may continue.”

“I arrived at the moment of his death. At this point, I took his body to the Klingon medical bay and used their technology to restart his heart and mind.”

“And you know how to do this how?”

Spock cannot implicate Doctor Mccoy. If anyone was being punished today, it was only going to be Spock. So he says, “Starfleet has an extensive database on Klingon technology. I merely needed to access and understand it. It was within the Klingon medical bay that I killed the Klingons.”

“How many?”

“I would estimate fifteen, sir.”

“You don’t know?” Disbelief mixed with pleasure. Spock finds Jim’s presence and holds onto it.

“I admit counting kills was not in the forefront of my mind, admiral.” He waits a beat, then adds: “If I may, admiral.”

“Say what you will, Mister Spock.”

“I ask that you please keep whatever punishment you give me from Captain Kirk until—”

“Until what?” Jim’s voice is soft, but it fills the bridge just the same, all power and dignity and authority. Spock abruptly stops speaking. He folds his hands behind his back and moves to the side as Jim steps onto the bridge, flanked by Doctor Mccoy and Uhura.

The admiral, though the crew on the bridge rises at Jim’s arrival, does not even bother to move. “Ah. Captain Kirk. I was told you were in the medical bay still.”

Jim’s gaze flickers to Spock and Spock feels a brief stab of irritation. He tries to go to his husband.

“Jim, you’re bleeding all over the floor. I do not mind sitting a few hours in the brig until you recover.”

“Sit down, Mister Spock.”

Spock, again, shuts his mouth. He takes a seat. He may be worried, but Doctor Mccoy and Uhura are likely better suited for this situation, and he got an order.

 Jim turns back to the admiral. “Yes. I was, Admiral. Unfortunately, however, I am a competent captain and I do know what’s happening on my ship.”

Despite the irritation Spock still feels from Jim, his lips twitch with the threat of a smile. This is the Jim he first fell in love with: not the soft-spoken, gentle man who stopped to pick flowers on missions and teased Spock until he blushed, but the Captain of the USS Enterprise; the captain with the answers, the captain with authority, the most feared and admired captain in all of Starfleet. He fell in love with the legend first, and then he fell in love with the man.

“And who can we thank for that?” the admiral asks, and glares at Doctor Mccoy. Doctor Mccoy glares right back.

“Sure as hell wasn’t me, admiral.” There’s a bite to his voice, and, as if that wasn’t enough, he adds a sneer to his words as well. Spock wonders what happened between them while he and Jim were gone. Perhaps he can ask Uhura. “I made a promise to Spock and I kept it.”

Another stab of irritation. Spock’s lips twitch again.

“And may I ask _why_ —”

“You will not be asking any questions, admiral.” Captain Kirk’s blood drips onto the floor in a steady stream, and Doctor Mccoy scrambles to press a patch of something to it. “You took command of this ship in my absence, seizing control from my first officer, and now you maintain command even as the Captain is on board. Why is this?”

“Neither of you are fit for command.”

Uhura’s eyes blaze and she steps forward, but Jim holds up a hand. She stops in her tracks. Her hands are curled into tight fists and they tremble at her sides.

“I think the opposite, admiral. What did First Officer Spock do, exactly, for you to warrant seizing control from him?”

“He was exhibiting explicit emotions.”

“And is it a requirement for a captain to be emotionless?” Captain Kirk’s voice is steely.

“Of course not. But Mister Spock—”

“That’s First Officer Spock,” Captain Kirk says, and the admiral, for the first time since Spock has seen him, stumbles over his words.

“Yes. First Officer Spock. He’s a Vulcan, Captain Kirk, and if a Vulcan displays human emotions—”

“Are you deliberately ignoring First Officer Spock’s heritage, or are you just that ignorant?”

Spock has to bite his inner cheek and stare very hard at the blood on Captain Kirk’s shirt so as not to begin laughing. This is wholly, beautifully, wonderfully Jim: the diplomat, the clever debater, the genius.

“I...do not know what you mean, Captain.”

“First Officer Spock is half human, Admiral. Did you even bother checking for that, or did you just see a set of pointed ears and let your bigotry take you the rest of the way?”

“I do not appreciate being insulted, Captain—”

Captain Kirk cuts him off with a snarl worthy of Doctor Mccoy: “Pointing out your xenophobia isn’t an insult, Admiral. If you do anything to make up for this mess, I expect it to be a formal apology to First Officer Spock as well as a Starfleet for your actions today.”

“You can’t expect—”

“For you to follow protocol? I can and I will, Admiral.”

Had Jim heard the Admiral’s words all that time ago? Is he throwing them back in his face now? Oh, how Spock loves him.

Captain Kirk neatly coughs blood into his hand. Doctor Mccoy scowls at him. “I would like to specify, Admiral, that my disapproval of your actions is in no way related to your forbidding First Officer Spock to come after me. Instead, I am displeased—no, appalled—that you have displayed a blatant disrespect for First Officer Spock, for me, and for the entirety of my crew. I welcome any sort of valid explanation for this, but I cannot fathom that there is any such explanation that would cover disrespecting an entire group of people with whom I doubt you have even conversed.”

He has backed the admiral into a corner and trapped him there: if the admiral decides to try to explain himself, he’ll have to attempt to reason away his ignorance; if he decides not to answer, he’s acknowledging that ignorance all the same.

So the admiral tries.

“I disapprove of the way you conduct yourself and your crew, Captain. I disapprove of your captaincy. I disapprove of your relaxed attitude. I disapprove of the way you treat your crew as equals instead of your inferiors, as you should.”

Captain Kirk lifts his chin up. Blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. “Am I relaxed now, Admiral?”

The admiral tries to lift his chin up as well, but the action looks weak next to Captain Kirk. Everything he does looks weak next to Captain Kirk. “I admit that I find it difficult to take you seriously when you look like this, Captain.”

There is a flash of anger behind Captain Kirk’s eyes. “Are you insinuating I cannot think properly while injured?”

“I don’t think anyone can, Captain.”

“You think incorrectly. I’m sure you saw, when the news broke, that I was one of the survivors of Tarsus IV.”

“I did,” says the admiral.

“Tarsus IV was a thousand times worse than anything the Klingons did to me. I thought properly under those conditions when I was only a child, and I was easily able to do the same after a couple hours of torture.”

His dismissal of what he just went through—his dismissal of his own _death_ —makes Spock admire him and worry about him all at once.

“In any case,” Captain Kirk continues, “My relaxation depends upon the situation. I am not relaxed now. While my crew carries out studies of planets on which there is no life, or while my crew travels for long stretches in space with no stops, of course I am relaxed. It maintains the morale. It keeps the crew from losing their wonder in the stars. As for your other criticisms”—he interrupts himself with another cough into his hand, and Doctor Mccoy dabs the blood from his mouth—“my captaincy is not only revered by your fellow admirals, but also by your superiors, and by the vast majority of diplomats alongside whom Starfleet works. I would argue, then, that it is your style of captaincy that needs to be evaluated.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spock can see the elevator slide open. Chekov steps on the bridge, followed by Sulu. The main bridge crew is returning. They likely won’t speak up now that their captain is here, but it’s getting closer to being okay.

“It is my style of captaincy, Captain, that got me promoted to admiral.”

“I was offered a promotion many times, but I know my level of diplomacy is more suited to actual diplomacy and not needless seizing of other people’s ships.”

The admiral opens his mouth, but Captain Kirk keeps speaking over him.

“Furthermore, I treat my crew as equals instead of as my inferiors because I believe they are my equals. We are all creatures of higher intelligence, and we treat each other with respect. I give them orders, and they follow them, and if you view that as treating them as my equals merely because I also converse with them as equals, I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding of what it means to be a captain.” Jim leans to the side as he says this, his eyes fluttering, and Uhura catches him before Spock can force himself to leap upward. She catches his eye and they share a tired look.

“Captain Kirk, I abhor your implications.”

“And I abhor your disrespect for my ship. You have treated my crew with the sort of casual flippancy that I would only expect from a tyrant. Not only did you remove First Officer Spock’s command from him and forbid him from doing his duty, but you also failed to recognize what he accomplished in ignoring your orders.”

“And what, pray tell, is that, Captain?”

It’s an incredible combination of the diplomatic Captain Kirk and Spock’s Jim who grins at the admiral—and the best part is, while most people might have seemed like they were baring their teeth, Jim’s smile seems genuine. There’s even a touch of pride that washes over Spock at this smile.

“In his escape, First Officer Spock acquired several Klingon weapons as well as a modern Klingon bird of prey. I imagine, while you attempt to explain this mess to your superiors, they’ll be more pleased with that than they are angry at him for performing his duties.”

The admiral looks like he wants to say something, but the words die in his throat.

“Get off my bridge, Admiral. Count yourself lucky that I’m not also throwing you in the brig.”

Again, the admiral looks like he wants to say something. His mouth opens and closes several times. Then he stands.

“In the future,” Captain Kirk says, “When you dislike someone, do not condemn them to their death. After all your time in Starfleet, I thought that you would at least understand that the answer to conflict is not death, but rather discussion. Officer King?”

King hurries forward with two more red shirts—Gomez and McKenzie. Captain Kirk gives the admiral another smile.

“In case you get lost,” he says, and in the next moment, the admiral is gone. “Whew,” says Jim, “That was pretty terrible.”

“Captain,” Uhura begins, “The admiral—”

Jim lifts a hand. “It’s okay, Uhura. I know Spock ordered you all not to interfere. I don’t blame any of you.”

“Blame Spock,” says Scotty helpfully, having somehow (and for some reason) arrived on the bridge without anyone noticing. Jim laughs. Then he coughs. Doctor Mccoy swears at him.

“Oh, I will. Not for this situation, but…” He whips his gaze to Spock and Spock shrinks in his seat. “You weren’t going to tell me? Really?”

“You were injured,” Spock tries to say, but Jim gives him a look and he shuts his mouth.

“I know you were worried about me, Spock.”

“I still am.” His momentary silence disappears in an instant. “Ashaya, you’re still bleeding all over the floor.”

“Thank you, Spock!” Doctor Mccoy throws up one hand, exasperated. “I _told_ you Spock could hold his own against the admiral.”

“I’m fine,” Jim says breezily.

“No, you’re not. You _died_.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Jim insists.

“Shut up. You need to come back down to the med bay.”

Jim tries to duck away from Doctor Mccoy, but Uhura and Spock both step forward to stop him.

“Oh, come on!”

Uhura lifts her shoulders. “You _do_ need medical attention, Captain.”

“You’re traitors. Both of you.” Jim crosses his arms. “I’m not going back to the med bay.”

Spock raises one eyebrow. “No matter what?”

“No matter what. I want to be on the bridge. It’s where I belong.”

Spock can’t argue with that. He glances at Doctor Mccoy, who he knows is thinking the same thing. They exchange nods.

“What? What does that mean?” Jim looks between them and panic flits across his face. “Are you two ganging up on me?”

“Not necessarily,” says the doctor as he pulls out his communicator. “We would never disobey your orders, Jim.”

“Now _that’s_ a blatant lie.” The panic is gone, but Jim still squints suspiciously. “What are you up to?”

“Just as I said.” Doctor Mccoy flips open the communicator. “I’m calling backup.”

Realization dawns on Jim. His jaw drops. “Hey, wait—”

“Nurse Chapel,” says Doctor Mccoy into the communicator, “You’re needed on the bridge.”

“No,” Jim moans. He collapses into his captain’s chair. Spock can’t help but notice he smears a significant amount of blood on the arm rests. “Bones, come on. Can’t you treat me by yourself? Chapel is so bossy.”

“No. I can’t. It’s this or the med bay.”

While they argue, Spock settles by his station with a satisfied smile curling his lips. He watches Jim complain with words that gain drama and flair exponentially with time. He watches Doctor Mccoy’s face switch between irritation and fondness in the blink of an eye, going from one to another and then right back to the first, like his emotions are controlled with a binary switch—and so they are, and the switch is held in the slender fingers of Spock’s husband.

He watches Uhura slide into her own station and place the headset over her perfectly-coiffed hair, her free hand already working at the myriad of switches in front of her.

He watches Sulu find the pilot’s chair. He watches Chekov get comfortable in navigation. He watches them tease each other and then complain about those who had taken their seats before them—oh, how those bastards messed everything up! Did they know _anything_ about ships at all? Have they, Sulu jokes, ever even seen a plane in their life?

He watches Scotty wander around the bridge, picking up conversations with the bridge crew, natural enough in this element to work the controls but not natural enough to ever want a job in which he doesn’t have constant, direct access to the warp core and the Enterprise’s engines.

He watches Nurse Christine Chapel arrive. He watches her come in like a storm, carting a myriad of medical supplies and assistants behind her. He watches her trap Jim in his chair and cut open his shirt and start using different machines on him. He watches her inject his neck with something in one breath and shove pills down his throat in the next, all the while asking elaborate questions on his wellbeing and “What hurts exactly, Jim? Does it feel more like a serrated knife or a smooth knife?” and Jim, for some reason, knows the answer is “Lightly serrated, like a butter knife—nothing to get all freaked out about.”

And he watches Jim again, and Jim watches him right back, and Jim offers a little smile that says so much without having to use any words at all, even through the bond that ties their souls together.

Spock takes a deep breath. He grins back.


	2. Epilogue

When Jim’s completed the healing process and Spock’s completed his (after being discovered by Doctor Mccoy, who throws a fit at the sight of Spock’s near-mangled hands and knees as well as several wounds from the Klingon weapons), everything seems back to normal. Spock carries out his duties with the assurance that Starfleet is doing its best to only send the Enterprise crew on the calmest of missions; they understand Jim and his crew want to keep working, but they also know they all really need a break.

It is only a week after Jim’s capture that they get the news of the admiral’s demotion—he is officially a captain again, but he is without a ship, and further consequences for his actions are pending. Spock receives all of this on his PADD and immediately delivers the news to Jim with a kiss and a tight, tight hug that lasts a generous ten minutes.

Jim returns with, “Man, that guy was a jerk, wasn’t he?” and Spock explodes into laughter.

A few weeks after that, Spock receives another message on his PADD, this one from Jim: _Meet me on the observation deck?_ Spock does so and finds a table set for two, complete with candles and a soft melody playing over the deck’s speakers.

Spock pauses in the doorway. He tilts his head. “This is…a piano. Classical music. Is this twenty-first century?”

Jim’s chuckle comes out from the side room before Jim does, dressed in a neat suit and tie. “All of that work and you’re analyzing the song?”

Spock closes the gap and brings Jim into his arms. “Well,” he murmurs, lips brushing Jim’s neck, “It is a beautiful song, though I admit I feel underdressed.”

Jim leans back and looks over Spock’s uniform. He’s been in it for almost thirty hours now. It’s probably wrinkled at the very least, and Spock wouldn’t be surprised if it smelled as well.

But, instead of grimacing, Jim smiles. He kisses Spock’s mouth and he smiles so wide that it leaves Spock helplessly breathless.

“You look _so_ handsome,” Jim says.

“Oh?” Spock curls their fingers together and puts his forehead against Jim’s. “And here I was thinking you wanted to see me in a suit.”

“Oh, man.” Jim closes his eyes. The shiver that runs through him is both physical and mental. “Oh, _man_.”

“Did that…upset you?” Spock grins against Jim’s skin, already knowing the answer.

“Uh.” Jim leans away again. He’s blushing a deep red. Even though they’re married. Even though they’ve had sex a countless number of times. Jim may own both the bridge and the bedroom, but as soon as Spock even begins talking or hinting at the idea of sex, all of the blood rushes to Jim’s cheeks. “I think I’ve made the executive decision, as your captain, to postpone any suit-wearing on your behalf until a later time.”

Spock tsks. “Dreadful. What a shame.”

“We all have to make sacrifices.”

“Indeed, captain. I think we deserve an uneventful dinner.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t go that far.” Jim kisses Spock again, laughing a little. “I think we can afford at least a couple events. I would even be up to one or two shenanigans.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Spock snorts.

“We will see what happens, Jim.” He leads them both to the table and guides Jim into one of the chairs. “We will see where the night takes us.”

“If everything goes right,” Jim says with a suddenly wicked smile, “It’ll take us right to the bedroom.”

“You’re blushing again,” Spock observes, taking his own seat opposite Jim. Jim’s hand flies to his cheek.

“It isn’t my fault! You always make me blush.”

“You make yourself blush.”

Jim scowls, but Spock knows his heart isn’t in it. “I never blushed this much before I met you.”

“It may have something to do with the fact that we’re soulmates.” Spock delicately tucks his napkin into his shirt as the food materializes in front of them. “But I could be wrong. I’ve been wrong before.”

“No! Really?”

“I would be irritated at that reaction if I didn’t love you with everything that I am.”

Jim’s grin is cheeky. “I know.”

“You walk a very dangerous line.”

“Have I ever done anything but?”

Spock shakes his head. He inspects the food in front of him, inspects the wineglass to the left of that, and takes a sample of both. Jim’s gaze slides over him.

“Do you like it?”

“Delicious as always, Jim. Your taste seldom fails to impress.”

“Only seldom?”

“It would be illogical to use absolutes.”

Jim’s responding laugh is so light it makes Spock feel like he’s floating on air. He takes another bite of the food and points his fork across the table.

“Eat, Jim.”

“I’m enjoying watching you.” Jim plants his chin in his hands and gives Spock a terribly dreamy look. “I got you a present.”

Spock pauses. He blinks once and then twice at his husband, tilting his head. “Is this not your present?”

“No. It isn’t. Well, it’s part of it. But it isn’t all.”

“My present, Jim, it—”

Jim shakes his head before Spock can finish. “You don’t have to get me anything, Spock. You know I love showering you in presents.”

“It isn’t exactly physical.”

“Your love is more than enough for me. And I consider your reaction a returning present.”

“You perplex me.”

“And it gets you all hot and bothered, doesn’t it?”

Spock pauses again. The grip he has around his fork tightens.

“Ha!” Jim almost shouts, stabbing a finger in Spock’s direction. “I _got_ you!”

Slowly, Spock gains control again. His grip relaxes and he puts the fork down, replacing it with the wine glass. “What is your present, Jim?”

Jim brings out Spock’s present, now: a flower alien to Earth varieties, glowing somehow both blue and gold. He presents it to Spock with both hands and beams. “Now how’s _that_ for a present?”

Spock can’t breathe. He reaches out with one trembling finger and touches a petal. It recoils at contact, curling into itself, and then after a moment it unravels and winds around Spock’s extended digit almost affectionately.

“I’m calling him ‘Poppy’,” Jim says. “He’s supposed to last for ages.” Then he sort of laughs and adds, “He’s like our first son. You can change the name if you want to but—”

“No,” Spock interrupts hoarsely. “No, don’t change it.”

Jim’s face shifts to an expression somewhere between affection and sympathy. “Oh, baby. Don’t cry.”

Spock, with the hand not still wrapped with Poppy, wipes away the tears sprouting at his eyes. “You have a way with gifts, Jim, as well as a certain skillset related directly to my emotions. If I had not cried, only then would there be reason for concern.”

Jim, gently, untangles Poppy from Spock’s fingers and then drops the flower into a vase of water that Spock hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps it had just materialized.

“Jim,” says Spock carefully, pulling his hand back to his cutlery, “We’ve known each other for a long time now.”

Jim just looks at him for a moment, gaze soft. “Yes, ashaya.”

“I knew you first as a legend, then a captain, and then a friend, and after all of this, I knew you as t’hy’la.”

Jim, finished with his dinner, wipes at his mouth and waits for Spock to continue.

“In all of this time, I have seen you take only one vacation, and that was to ensure you spent enough quality time with your mother before she was reassigned to a different base. It only lasted a week, and that was over four years ago. Now, before you say that I’m not much better,” he says before Jim can interject (he’s getting that sort of look in his eye that practically screams ‘fight me’), “I know that I am not much better. I would agree, even, that I am worse. So I have a proposition for you, and while obviously you do not have to agree, I would appreciate it if you would.”

Jim leans back in his chair and folds his hands on top of his chest. “Hit me with it.”

“The Enterprise is docking for routine maintenance and upgrades in two months. Normally we would take this time to catch up on paperwork, but our missions have been and, until we dock, will be simple, so I imagine we can stay up to date enough to forgo dedicating all of that time to such duties. Instead, Jim, let’s go somewhere. Let’s take a vacation—a real vacation—and relax together. Let’s get away from the ship and our jobs for a month and just be together with nothing else and no one else to worry about.”

For a long few seconds, Jim doesn’t say anything. He steeples his fingers together under his chin and flutters his eyelashes at Spock a few times.

“Jim,” Spock says.

“Let’s do it. Where are we going?”

Spock’s shoulders, which he hadn’t realized were tense, relax. “There’s a mountainous planet three light years from the dock, and I know with whom I can speak to reserve a cabin by a lake. We’ll have our pick between relaxing in the sun or, a short drive away, hiking in the snow.”

The front legs of Jim’s chair drop to the ground with a clatter. “You’ve already reserved it, haven’t you?”

“I might have. I am willing to pay the cancellation fee should you protest the location.”

“No, I think it’s perfect.” Jim reaches across the table and puts his hand over Spock’s. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

Spock swallows another sob that builds up in his chest. “I love you with everything that I am.”

Jim stands, still holding Spock’s hand, and moves around the table so they’re right next to each other. He pulls Spock to his feet. “Mister Spock,” he says, “How about a dance?”

Spock puts their cheeks together. He inhales, taking in that mixture of smells so uniquely Jim he could find him in a crowded room with his eyes closed; he slides Jim close so their waists align; he gathers every feeling of love and comfort and belonging and adoration and everything pertaining to Jim and he sends it all rushing to his husband, and Jim laughs—just a puff of air—and Spock basks in that warmth on his skin. “It would be,” he whispers, “My absolute, genuine pleasure.”

And Jim leads him to the stars.


End file.
